Chapter 4

After I was done editing Claire’s speech, I was washing dishes in the kitchen.

Mom happened to be on the phone in the living room, and her voice carried clearly across the room.

“An adopted child is an adopted child, after all. I just can’t force a bond that isn’t there.”

I stopped moving.

She had the call on speaker, so I heard the person on the other end ask, “You’ve raised her for eighteen years. Surely you must have developed some attachment to her by now?”

“How could I? Claire is the apple of my eye.” Mom leaned back against the sofa with a laugh. “Who knows what kind of people that child came from? I’m telling you, she’s got a lot of thoughts in her head. She’s just like those parents of hers, whoever they are.”

I wiped my hands on my apron and walked into the living room.

“Mom.”

She glanced at me, told the person on the phone to hold on, then covered the microphone.

“What is it?”

“What if I’m actually your biological daughter?”

“What are you rambling about now?”

I mustered up the courage to speak.

“I mean… what if… what if the original DNA test was wrong?”

“Sophia Blackwood.”

She hung up the phone and sat upright.

“You said this once when you were little. And that was enough. Now that you’re eighteen, you’re still bringing this up. You do this every few days. Aren’t you tired of it? Do you think saying this will somehow make you my real daughter?

“Let me make one thing clear. You don’t deserve it. No matter how good your grades are, you don’t deserve it. You can try as hard as you want to please me, and you still don’t deserve it. You are not my daughter. Do you understand?”

I stood there frozen.

“Remember this. I have only one daughter in this life, and that’s Claire. You are not my daughter, and you never will be.”

She was right. When I was little, I was always upset.

I would cling to Mom and ask her if there had been a mix-up, if I was actually her biological daughter.

After all, I looked so much like her. We had the same dimples. I looked just like Dad too. We both even liked cilantro. Maybe that was simply genetics.

Claire, on the other hand, could barely stand the smell of cilantro.

I grabbed Mom’s hand and asked, “Mom, could I be your biological daughter too?”

She then shoved me away without warning, and my forehead hit the coffee table. Blood ran down my face.

She didn’t even panic. She simply said, “Ungrateful brat. You actually think you can replace my daughter?”

The wound left a permanent scar on my forehead.

She pointed at it and said, “You were ugly enough already. Now you’re even uglier with that scar. My darling Claire is still the pretty one.”

In the living room, she looked at me with nothing but disgust.

I swallowed my tears, pressed my lips together, and went to my room.

That night, I had a dream. In my dream, I had never been lost, and the DNA test had never been wrong.

Mom held me in her arms and called me Sophia in that soft, gentle voice of hers.

I could see with both eyes, and I saw her smiling face.

The scene was so vivid, so real, and it felt as though it had actually happened.

Then I woke up.

There was a small damp patch on my pillow. I didn't know whether it had come from my left eye or my right.

Those five days of waiting were agonizing. Every day felt like an eternity.

On Monday at noon, one of Claire’s friends came over to visit.

She pointed at me and asked, “Is that your sister? What happened to her eye?”

Claire casually replied, “There’s something wrong with her eye. Don’t stare.”

Mom came out carrying a plate of fruit. Hearing that, she said, “She did it to herself. Her right eye is already blind. Don’t bother with her.”

I forced myself to smile and nodded.

On Tuesday evening, Dad returned from his business trip with a pile of gifts for Claire.

A new tablet, a limited-edition collectible, and a beautiful princess dress.

I stood in the corner, watching their happy little family scene.

My eyes grew red, and my nose began to sting.

Afraid they would notice how miserable I looked, I quickly lowered my head.

Mom glanced at me.

“What are you standing around for? Go clean Claire’s room, then wash her clothes.”

I ran back to my room, tears streaming down my face.

Wednesday was Claire’s birthday. The house was packed with guests and filled with laughter. Gifts were piled all over the living room.

Mom carried out a three-tiered cake decorated with cream frosting. Written across it in chocolate sauce was [Happy Birthday to Our Little Princess, Claire.]

Claire’s classmates gathered around her and sang the Happy Birthday song.

Mom held up her phone to record the whole thing, smiling so brightly that little lines appeared at the corners of her eyes.

I stood at the kitchen doorway, dishwater still dripping from my hands.

No one called for me.

It was my birthday too.

No one mentioned it.

Thursday morning, Claire went to the public speaking competition.

I was the one who edited her speech.

Or rather, I wrote it. I had originally only been asked to revise her draft, but she abandoned it altogether and had me write a new one for her.

I had worked on it until two in the morning the night before.

Mom sat in the front row, recording the entire thing on her phone.

The glow from the screen lit up her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was smiling.

When the competition ended, Claire won first prize.

Mom sent her photo to all the family group chats.

In the picture, Claire held up her trophy, her eyes curved into a bright smile.

Mom captioned it, [My little princess is amazing.]

The family chats filled with praise and congratulations.

My name, however, had never appeared in any of them.

Then Friday finally came.

I stood outside the DNA testing lab, staring through the glass door, my palms slick with sweat.

The receptionist handed me a brown envelope.

I pulled out the two sheets of paper and flipped to the final line.

“The submitted samples A and B are confirmed to have a biological mother-daughter relationship. Probability of maternity: 99.9999%.”